


Where Tragedies Sleep

by Ayerea



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Past Abuse, Past Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Smoking, Tyrion the impossible cat, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, once - Freeform, they're mentioned once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayerea/pseuds/Ayerea
Summary: Some lovers obliterate you. - N. L. Shompole"There is a Ramsay shaped hole in his life. The hole needs to be filled. Theon will fill it with fire."Ramsay is gone and Theon needs to learn how to human again. He's doing horrible, until he's not.





	Where Tragedies Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my sister who has a well of bullshit knowledge about tattoos that I really, really needed
> 
> I wrote it all in a day and regret my life
> 
> I didn't specify what happened to Ramsay, you're welcome to draw your own conclusions, my favorite is that Asha got rid of him. Quietly.
> 
> I learned three things while writing this  
> 1\. I'm physically unable to do 'short' or 'romance'  
> 2\. Apologetically is a bullshit word  
> 3\. Breathlessness looks fake

Hauntings

are not only for the dead,

neither is decay,

neither is despair.

\- N. L. Shompole

 

The apartment is empty. Everything, that could ever remind Theon, that someone used to share it with him, is gone. That’s a good thing, he reminds himself.

He sleeps in the bed, for the first time in months. And when he wakes there is no pain in his back and no one to tell him he’s being lazy.

****

He doesn’t eat breakfast, because the fridge is as empty as the rest of the apartment. Theon grabs his keys and leaves the house. There is an emptiness inside him that echoes the one in his home. There is a Ramsay shaped hole in his life, and Theon easily forgets how good that is. It doesn’t feel good. It feels like longing.

****

He buys blankets and pillows, food and a pack of cigarettes. Theon doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t go outside or sleep on the bed either, he thinks wryly. The hole needs to be filled. Theon will fill it with fire.

****

He takes a deep drag, tastes the smoke, the ashes in his mouth, in his lungs.

“You know what those do to your body, right?”, a woman says.

He laughs and shrugs. Bitterly he thinks, I have never met anyone who smokes too stay alive. He devours the fire, burns his lungs, his heart, and leaves the ashes on the sidewalk.

There’s nothing left for him here.

****

He wants to be free of Ramsay, of ice in his soul. He stops drinking, because drunk Theon had meant easy to fuck Theon. He starts smoking, because Ramsay had scrunched up his nose at it. He sleeps on a bed with four blankets and ten pillows. Soft luxuries. He showers - no baths, never baths - everyday and uses too much shampoo, on bad days he goes multiple times. His water bills rise and rise, laughing at him. He lets them, he can afford it.

****

He’s doing everything Ramsay hadn’t let him, somehow everything he does still has Ramsay all over it. He isn’t free at all.

****

Theon sits by the window, down under him the street is filled with life. He almost laughs. He sits looking at everything he will never be able to have. He sat on a windowsill before, thinking how perfect his life was, what a perfect lover he had. Theon before would never have thought about the people on the street and their lives, Theon now can’t help but wonder how it could have been.

He sees to late how he forgot to flick his cigarette. The ashes fall. Heat on his fingers, on his hand. It feels nice. He wants to feel it again. The thought scares him.

****

Theon has never been good at resisting.

****

There are circles on his thighs where he extinguished the fire. He remembers the smoke, the heat, burning flesh, no pain. Never pain. He wonders if he feels at all. He’s empty. Ashes left from autumn trees. There is nothing left of him, except a name. Not his name, another’s name. The stars on his skin are him trying to burn away that name. It’s not working. Rose thorns embedded in his heart, his soul. Skin deep fire cannot touch them. But if it could, he thinks, what would be left of me?

Smoke.

****

Nicotine clings to his fingers. He hates the smell, the taste. It’s okay, there’s a lot about himself that he hates. This one is his choice, he clings to that, to the control. _I can stop anytime._ But the taste lays heavy on his tongue, bitter and burning. He leaves ashes behind, smoke burning his throat. There is a fire in his heart, it’s not passion, not hatred, just a burning need to destroy everything he is, everything he was. And if all that remains are ashes and embers, that’s fine, that’s good.

He can stop anytime, he just doesn’t want to.

(It’s a lie.)

****

Theon can’t stay inside for a second longer. Something is missing, Someone is missing.

(There’s name on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t dare speak it.)

He grabs his keys, lighter and the package of cigarettes - it’s almost empty. He bought it today.

****

There’s someone who touched him once. It was ice and cold winds. Winter. He can’t think of snow as beautiful anymore. He watches smoke curling and dancing.

Up, up, up.

It’s never going to touch the moon. It will grow ever thinner and disappear with the wind.

(There’s a metaphor there somewhere.)

The stars are beautiful tonight, but all he can see is the darkness between them.

****

He takes another cigarette and lights it on fire. It’s the third in fifteen minutes. Nausea is already happily dancing in his stomach. It’s better than the emptiness, the nothingness at home in his body. The package is empty, like him, like him, but he can’t get himself to throw it away

He buys a new one. The craving is already back. Taunting. He smokes another one. There is nothing left to burn, he’s just ashes now.

But he can’t stop.

And there is no one left to tell him no.

****

He decides to get a tattoo, something pretty, something beautiful to cover all the ugliness. Ramsay would have hated it. He had never liked Theon marking his own skin. Theon doesn’t care.

****

His left arm is covered in blue and white waves. Japanese traditional, the man, who paints his skin, says. Theon doesn’t care. You can’t see the scars spelling ‘Reek’ anymore. Theon cares about that. He cover his back too. Grey and black and white. A kraken and a ship. It said ‘Property of Ramsay’ once. Not anymore.

His right arm has no scars. The blank skin itches with the wrongness. Theon, who loves the feeling of needles in his skin, who likes the pain because it’s his own, gets it covered too. Ramsay, who liked to call him worthless - and slut, he liked calling him slut too - had once said, that the worthless did not deserve happiness, and Theon, who does everything Ramsay teached him not to, thinks about the few good things in his life.

He covers the wrongness with wolves. There’s five of them, for five people who had made his live somewhat livable.

On the bottom a lying wolf, curled up on red autumn leaves - because that’s how he sees himself now, dying leaves in the wind - with cream, champagne fur - Sansa, who was a kind dreamer. Theon values good dreams a lot now.

A growling black one on the left - Rickon, childish and wild. Theon needs the reminder of freedom and what it tastes like - bitter and sweet, like dark chocolate. He has always liked chocolate.

A dark grey one on the right with calm eyes - Robb, brave and kind. Theon has never been brave, but he can learn. There is a lot he’s learning.

A white one, howling with red eyes, on the left - Jon, honorable and always fucking pouting. He has kind eyes, sad eyes. Theon has never been honorable either, but the thought is nice.

A brown and grey wolf in the middle, this one is howling too - Arya, a fighter, a wild child. She would be jealous of the tattoo, too young to have one and parents who would never allow it. Theon isn’t a fighter, but he’s surviving and that’s enough.

The top one is red and brown, calming colours, kind eyes - Bran, clever and curious, a sweet summer child, ever calming. Theon needs a lot of calm these days.

****

It takes a week, it could have gone faster, but the man refuses to do it all at once.

The skin has trauma, he says, we’re already going too fast. Theon doesn’t know what that means either. It doesn’t matter. A week is fine.

****

He likes the feel of needles in his skin, of ink covering everything he hates. It feels like someone put a band-aid on a open wound. It’s relief.

(Not really.)

(It’s a wound festering. Uncontrolled. Until the fever of infection takes its toll.)

****

Theon buys a phone - he doesn’t dare turning on his old one - and another pack of cigarettes. He doesn’t open it. He wants to, god, does he want to.

****

It’s raining. Grey sky, grey clouds, grey rain on grey pavement. After all the sunshine it feels vindicating. He can’t sleep. Today is bad day.

(He doesn’t want to sleep. Bad dreams are chasing him.)

Theon hears mewling and stops. He looks down to his side and finds a sogging wet mess, it was a cardbox once. The letters ‘Free’ are written on it in, black and bold. (Bold/Bolt/Bolton. It reminds him of things he’d rather not think about.) The letters look like they are crying.

Theon kneels beside the box. His pants are wet now, but he finds he cares little about that. He finds a cat. It’s orange and small, its fuzzy fur dirty and wet. It’s shivering. Theon picks it up and holds it close to his body. He’s not warm, but warmer than the kitten.

Theon takes it home.

****

He takes the little one to the vet. It’s sneezing from time to time, which is only cute after the panic it causes him disappears. (It’s so small he fears it might die from the cold.) There is a cut on its face, going from the top right to the bottom left of its little head. The wound is infected, not badly, but enough to worry. Theon cleans the ooze with warm water and salt, he doesn’t have anything else at hand. The little one hisses and spits, but, like it knows Theon means well, never scratches or bites.

****

The vet, a kind blonde woman with three barsoi dogs, tells him his kitten, a he, is not a kitten at all, just a runt. He’ll probably not grow any bigger than he is. Theon is fine with that. He’s not seriously sick. Theon is given antibiotics for the cut and some medicine for the cold.

The vet asks for the cat’s name. Theon calls him Tyrion.

(He thinks he knew someone by that name once, someone great, someone funny, but he can’t remember.)

****

Theon buys some things he’ll need for Tyrion, bowls, a cat tree, a litter box, actual litter and food.

****

When he wakes he can’t find the cat anywhere. His apartment only has four rooms, there are not a lot of places to search. Fine, he thinks, it doesn’t matter.

(The tears on his face say otherwise.)

****

It rains again. Theon thinks it fitting. He’s mourning the cat he’s never really had, like his lover, the one he doesn’t think about, when there’s scratching at the window. Tyrion is sitting outside, wet and miserable. Theon can relate. He lets him in.

(He has no fucking clue how Tyrion managed to climb a five story window. Cats.)

****

Theon is sitting by the window, cigarette in his mouth. It’s not lit, not yet. Lighter in hand, he’s staring at the fire. There’s an urge to hold his hand over it. His hand is twitching.

Tyrion jumps in his lap and the lighter clatters to the floor. Theon strokes through the soft orange fur, like dandelions, like the sun.

(It feels better than fire.)

****

Theon stares at his phone. Tyrion stares at his face. He meows. Theon sighs.

“I know,” he says. He’s talking to a cat now. Great.

He sends a text to a number he knows by heart since childhood. There’s another number, but he isn’t ready for that particular conversation yet.

_Wanna meet up for coffee tomorrow?_

_\- Theon_

It sounds normal, like it hasn’t been months of silence between them.

_Sure, it’s a date ;)_

_\- Robb_

Of course he wouldn’t care that it has been so long. Date? Theon takes deep shuddering breaths. He fishes for his cigarettes. Tyrion crawls into his lap and starts chewing on his fingers. It doesn’t hurt. It’s grounding, calming. Theon strokes his fur and breathes deep.

(He doesn’t smoke all day.)

****

They haven’t talked about the time - Or the place, but they’ve been drinking hot chocolate at the Golden Rose since they were five - so Theon waits an hour on the elegant silver chairs outside. Tyrion, for some inexplicable reason, is sitting on his lap. The door was locked, the window was closed, Theon lives on the fifth floor.

(Cats.)

****

Robb looks like he always has, dark hair and bright eyes. The same can’t be said for Theon. He’s been taking on weight, living on ramen and the occasional pizza will do that to you, but he’s still lighter than he was before. (Just before, there no longer goes a name with that statement.)

“Hey,” Robb greets with a sunshine smile. “Long time no see.” Theon snorts, if that isn’t the understatement of the century.

“How have you been?”, Robb asks and sits down. Theon thinks about his daily showers, how the scent of alcohol still makes him ill, but also about the weight in his lap and how the little devil has been staging interventions every time Theon felt the need to smoke.

“Good, I think.” And then, pretending he still knows how normal human interaction works, asks: “What about you?”

“Better. Dad died a few months ago, cancer you know.”

Theon does know, but he doubts it’s the same. Fuck, this is not how he thought the conversation would go.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say. (He doesn’t want to think about strong, honorable Ned Stark wasting away in a hospital.) There’s a pause in the conversation, after news like that it’s nothing unusual.

“Who’s the little guy?”, Robb asks then. For a second Theon doesn’t know who he means, but then it dawns on him.

“His name is Tyrion, saved him for the streets. He’s living with me now. I have no clue if I’m even allowed, apartment you know, but no one has said anything so far. He’s very helpful.”

He’s rambling, so he stops talking. Robb simply smiles, the way a dog sometimes smiles at you, like he doesn’t really understand, he’s just happy and wants you to know.

They talk a lot about all kinds of things. Robb more than Theon. Arya has won some medals in fencing, Sansa has a girlfriend now (“Which is good, her former boyfriend was a twat.”), and Jon is married (“Her name is Ygritte and she slapped Joffrey. I have never seen anyone break a nose with a slap before. I was very impressed.”). Robb has a dog and can talk about him for ten minutes, while only breathing twice. Theon counted. His name is Grey Wind, he’s a Northern Inuit Dog. Not that Theon knows what those look like, he’s just happy that Robb is happy.

****

When he gets home he falls into bed immediately. Social interactions never used to be tiring.

****

Theon eats breakfast daily now, having a cat meowing at him when it’s time to eat helps. He’s sitting by the window, again and again, like a broken record. He takes his phone and makes a call, the call he’s been pushing and pushing for weeks.

“Asha Greyjoy, you have ten seconds before I’m hanging up.”

Theon stiffles his laughter. She’s been answering the phone like that since she was thirteen, since her first phone. He counts to eight, like he has done since his first phone, since the first time he had to call her. (Because their mother was sick and their father hadn’t deemed it necessary to pick him up from school. A ten minute drive versus an hour of walking. He was eleven. She had been fifteen, too young to drive, and cared about that like dogs about algebra. She'd picked him up.)

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, again like it hasn’t been months of silence. He’s good at ignoring problems, always been and probably never learning better.

(There’s the wound again, festering under the band-aid, oozing pus and blood.)

“Theon.” She more breathes than says his name, it sounds soft. Dandelions and summer clouds. He almost cries. Almost.

“Father is dead.”

Who the fuck starts conversations like that? What is it with people dying while he was-

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about _him_.

He hangs up.

(Apparently he wasn’t prepared for that conversation.)

(Maybe she hadn't been either.)

****

He buys two bottles of wine and gets piss drunk.

****

He wakes to an empty apartment, five missed calls and a lot of unread messages. They will stay unread for a while.

Theon drags himself to the bathroom and pukes. There’s not a lot. He didn’t eat dinner or breakfast, his stomach’s content is mostly wine.

He drinks water to get rid of the taste, the taste of ashes remains. The stink of wine fills the whole apartment. He grabs his keys, phone, and cigarettes and leaves. He can’t stay another minute. There is poison in the air, in his veins and in his thoughts.

He’s never drinking again.

Fuck wine.

****

He checks the calls first. Asha mostly, one from Robb. Robb he would deal with, not now though. Asha he would deal with preferably never. (He can’t run from it forever, but he can damn well try.)

The messages are mostly Asha as well, but there is one from an unknown number. His hands shake as he opens it. Unknown number, unknown tidings.

_Robb is worried, please call him back_

_\- Sansa_

Which raises the question why is he worried? The moment he has read the message a new one pops up. Robb this time.

_meet me at the golden rose_

So Theon starts walking.

****

Robb waits at their usual table, dog at his side and cat in his lap. Theon stops and stares. Said cat is Tyrion, who hadn’t been home. Something in him goes what the fuck.

“Yeah, he came to my house, yesterday,” Robb says, smile on his lips. Theon stares some more.

“He came to your house?” He isn’t even sure why he still questions this fucking cat. Cats.

“Yeah, right before you called me.”

“Called you?” He starts feeling like some kind of fucking parrot, or a crow, crows could mimic human speech, couldn’t they? At this Robb’s smile drops and he doesn't seem to be able to sit still. Red flags are hissed and there’s a siren going off somewhere in Theon’s head.

“You sounded pretty drunk.”

“I was pretty drunk,” Theon answers tense. Robb laughs, it doesn’t sound amused at all.

“I noticed.” And the he drops a bomb on Theon. (Which is the third bomb he had to endure in two days.)

“Who is Ramsay?” Theon’s whole body tenses, a volcano ready to erupt at any time. Most of Theon, the disgusted and traumatised part, the part that makes it hard to sleep, never wanted to hear that name again, the other part, the lonely one, the one who stares longingly at his old dead phone, feels satisfied, it whispers you shouldn’t have pushed away the name, you shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have. (It sounds a lot like _him_.) And then there is a very small part that is relieved, as if there is anything worse Theon could have talked about while drunk.

There isn’t.

(There is.)

“No one,” he answers. The voice doesn’t sound like it’s his. It sounds hollow. (Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.)

“Theon,” Robb sounds careful, like he’s talking to some spooked animal. (It’s not too far from the mark.) But Theon shakes his head, there are literally a thousand things he’d rather do than talk about that, about _him_.

“How about we go to my place, I make us food and you can shower?” Now that Robb mentions showering, Theon notices he’s been scratching at his own hands for minutes. He does that when he feels unclean. How much did he tell Robb?

He nods, Robb smiles relieved and they walk.

****

Robb’s house is bigger than Theon expected it to be. Which is funny, the Starks have always been a well-off family. He’s used to less nowadays. He likes less.

There’s a kitchen and a living room, connected by a hallway, a pair of stairs leading up to the second floor and a bathroom beside the stairs. Upstairs is a guest room, Robb’s room and another bathroom, Robb tells him. Who even needs two bathrooms when they live alone? Grey Wind happily darts off into the garden, because Robb also has a garden. Theon feels too small in the big house. He’s never been happier with his apartment than now.

Robb pretty much pushes him into the bathroom, kind of throws clothes at him, and tells him that towels are in the cabinet.

Smooth.

****

Tears and water drip, drip, dripping down the drain.

Something sweet has been ruined. (Childish innocence compares it with raisins in cinnamon buns.)

And whose fault is that, something unbidden whispers.

Yours, yours, yours, something else in Theon sings.

(And for the first the there is a thought that occurs to him. _Maybe it wasn’t my fault._ )

(It wasn’t.)

****

Theon walks out of the shower and into the living room, where Robb told him to go when he’s done. He is greeted with Tyrion sitting on a large, long wooden table. He looks smug. They hadn’t taken him with them from the café. He walked here alone. Cats.

****

Robb, bless him, puts a plate of pancakes on the table.

“Comfort food,” he says simply. Theon doesn’t deny that he needs comfort. He has stopped denying himself a lot of things a long time ago. (A long time, you know, a few weeks. It’s okay, he’s learning.)

They sit down on the sofa, not at the table, and sit in silence. Robb doesn’t ask and Theon doesn’t tell. He doesn’t want to.

****

They talk and cuddle with cat and dog until the sky darkens. They fall asleep on the sofa, in positions that will make both of them curse and moan in the morning.

****

Theon’s sleep is restless.

(For the night is dark and full of terrors.)

He wakes, a scream stuck in his throat. He makes no sound. He has learned to stifle the screaming pretty early on in his not-relationship.

Robb still wakes.

There are kisses on his forehead, on his hair. A long wet trail of dog spit on his arm. It tickles. Theon doesn’t laugh, but the tears in his eyes don’t fall either. Robb kisses them away. Calling the feeling in his stomach butterflies would be inaccurate, it’s too much, too strong for that. He thinks of dragons.

(And there is the worse thing he could have babbled about while drunk.)

(I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ve loved you since before.)

They share a soft kiss, chaste and sweet - Honey - before they go back to sleep.

They can talk in the morning.

****

They don’t. Talk that is. It just kinda _is_ now.

Robb lets him sleep in and makes breakfast. It is Tyrion who wakes him, gently, by jumping on his face and smothering him. He appreciates the love and care. Robb laughs.

(And it’s good. It could have been a kick in stomach and ‘wake the fuck up slut’.)

(It is not and it never will be.)

****

Robb asks him if he has to go to work.

“I can drive you,” he says. Theon thinks of the state of his bank account, about the money he was paid, because he was deemed physically and mentally unable to work. (The circumstances are depressing, so Theon reminds himself of Roose Bolton’s face when he was told the monthly amount. Annoyed Hippo, comes to mind. It’s somewhat vindicating.)

“No,” he answers and kisses Robb goodbye.

“Grey Wind will keep you company, and he will make it very clear when he’s hungry.”

Theon laughs.

****

He doesn’t laugh when Grey Wind ‘makes it very clear’ that he’s hungry. He pushes Theon towards the kitchen. Theon almost falls twice and actually falls once. He’s not hurt, that doesn’t make it okay. (He has learned.)

“No pushing,” he scolds Grey Wind gently. His ears droop and he licks Theon’s hand apologetically. Dogs are better people than people, Theon decides. Except Robb. Well Robb could qualify as a dog.

There is a smile on his lips for a long time.

****

He can’t outrun his problems, he knows that, so he grabs his phone of the table and dials Asha’s number.

“Asha-”

“We are not going to talk about father. You know as much as I do, that he wasn’t father of the year material, so let’s just not.”

There is a pause on the other side of the line.

“Okay, okay. I want to see you, can we meet?”

“Oh my god, Asha, you sound like we’re secret lovers.” He can hear her eyeroll. He laughs. “But yeah, I would like that. Golden Rose in ten minutes?”

“I’ll see you.”

He writes a note to Robb, it sounds a lot like before Theon.

**Out with my sister will take a while need to get my stuff I’m moving in with you your house is too big <3**

****

Theon doesn’t question it when Tyrion is laying on their (Robb’s and his) table, waiting for Theon. At this point he just accepts it. Cats.

Asha joins him just a minute later. She pulls him off the chair, like he’s a fucking kitten (or Tyrion), and proceeds to crush him in heir arms. And smother him with her breasts, which would be nice with any other woman than his sister.

“How have you been?”, he asks feigning breathlessness. She rolls her eyes at him, the way only exasperated elder siblings can. He loves it.

****

They talk. She’s planning to get married. Theon laughs at her until she hits him on the arm. Hard.

“Wait you’re serious? Who? Is he blind or stupid?”

She hits him again. Harder.

Theon doesn’t know who Sandor Clegane is, but Asha is happy and that’s already enough for Theon. He does contemplate if he needs to prepare a brother shovel talk, but it’s Asha. If anything bad ever happened, she would murder him before Theon could, and no one would ever be the wiser. Except Theon, and Theon would remain as silent as Sandor Clegane would after she’s done with him. But she’s happy and he seems like a good man. Ish. Theon doesn’t think Asha would pick some honorable Jon Snow as her fiancé.

(She would eat him alive.)

****

Robb, in true Robb fashion, just accepts that Theon now lives with him. They are laying on the sofa again. Tyrion is lying on Grey Wind’s head, who has accepted his position as the lesser pet. Tyrion is the Alpha now.

It is warm and Theon is shirtless, which apparently is an invitation for Robb, who reaches out to Theon, and then, like the god damn sap he is, asks:

“Can I touch you?” Like he hasn’t kissed Theon senseless just last night. And this morning. He looks so mesmerized and earnest, Theon can’t get himself to tease him. He nods instead.

He touches the wolves first, careful and with awe in his eyes, like Theon is beautiful, something precious. He’s not.

(He is.)

Robb kisses every single one. Theon shudders. It’s good, he likes that. Robb kisses the other arm, follows the pattern of the waves. (Just so missing the scars you can’t see anymore. Theon doesn’t realise. It’s the only reason he doesn’t panic.) He trails his fingers over his back, over the kraken, over the ship. Right over the scars Theon had almost forgotten. He tenses, they both do.

‘Property of Ramsay’ stands between them. A wall. (There are a lot of walls Theon could think of - The chinese one, the one once in berlin - but none seem tall enough.)

Robb slowly, ever so slowly, reaches out and pulls him close.

“It’s okay,” he says and kisses Theon on the temple.

No, Theon thinks, but it will be.

And he tells Robb everything. There is no order or sense to it, he just gets rid of it all. Throwing rocks, unnecessary baggage, down a cliff.

Freefalling.

(Ripping off band-aids/Cleaning the wound from dirt, pus and ooze/Letting air heal the rest.)

****

Robb holds him through all of it, Tyrion by his side and Grey Wind at his feet.

****

When all is done and said, they go outside. “Let’s just look at the stars and cuddle. You need it. I need it,” Robb said. It’s calm and peaceful. Theon realises, with the impact of a derailed train, he’s never been happier.

****

He doesn’t think of the Rxxxxx shaped hole as filled, that would imply Robb is a replacement. Insulting. He doesn’t think of it as mended either, not when he still can’t smell alcohol, or be satisfied with showering every two days, or say _his_ name.

It’s fine. Things are going up hill.

(If you have reached your lowest point it can only go up.)

****

The stars are beautiful tonight, but all he can see is their reflection in Robb’s eyes. There is nothing more perfect.

****

(Autumn leaves turn to spring flowers on apple trees.)


End file.
